II.
Parklette along walkways where
yarns line prickles of ditched christmastrees
growls link-clicks can eye it too easily.
Trolley-tilts make eyebrows arch at
petulant traffic cops letting
mirror-carriers choke up the work returners.
An owl looks back at late hats,
boots leering in clangorous steps
at the shops that track-crossers hurry to in irony.

III.
Petulantly, I tilt my hat
toward the leers backing out of the parklette.
Boots traffic this link-clicking clangor of irony,
as your yarns choke on the looks which
arch and growl at the prickles in the tilting trolley.

Some brooms have plastic
when yonder, other alternates
don’t linger in the landfill.
And when will this river
revive its other faltering
tributaries,
which weep when the dam gloms
its glorious seep and floods the land?
I am in an uneven territory,
very tense when whores are
slammed as demons, when
dicks and coffee become
weaponized.
Feminism is not an aphrodisiac,
and television is not practical.
Actually, I’m tired, and I have narcolepsy.
Speculate what spins the genes of stationary
tall stolid cedar trees.
Smell fire, pheremones,
and weep when the goddamn
pee floods the porta potty.
See these naked twinkling glitter ravers,
and ask if
the trick of coffee is a sedative,
to be a pony with stripes weaponized,
unlike the zoo zebra, whose ruse
and unnameable mane became
black and white so you
can’t treat
your appetite
with flippant wants,
with clicking the OK
upon the rippling
internet.

SUCH A SWITCH!

As I embrace my authorial embarrassment, I ponder how peerlessness sits unallayed if one simply stays at home. We must alight, throw the frame of the curious kite out into the sinister wind, the cold world of badges and identities. Oh, if you like (or loathe) any of this, I beckon your salutations be sent to me.